Elise’s face lit up like the sun. “You read my mind.”
At least that was something they agreed on. Harper couldn’t explain the relief rocketing through her body. She folded one leg under the other and hoped the rest of the questions could go down as easily. Unfortunately, it seemed that was not the case.
Elise read the next question. “If you’re hosting a dinner party with friends, are you either cooking and planning the entire thing or letting your partner do the heavy work?”
Harper didn’t host much. She and Harry had always met their friends at restaurants or pubs. And she didn’t love to cook either. If she had to be honest, she’d probably be the one in the living room entertaining everyone with stories of her expeditions. “I guess I’ll probably entertain the guests,” she said, answering honestly.
Elise bit her bottom lip so hard that it went white.
“What kind of host are you?” Harper asked quickly. She realized she had no idea what role Elise would take in a situation like that. Did she even know Elise at all?
“I don’t host that often, to be honest,” Elise said, not answering the question. Then she quickly flicked her hand through the air again and added, “Why don’t we just move on. The next one seems pretty easy.” She scrolled down a bit, and Harper wondered if she’d skipped a few questions she assumed they would disagree on. Frankly, it was probably for the best. Harper didn’t know how much more she could take.
“Okay,” Elise said. “What do you think is the best arrangement for household chores? A strict schedule or whoever has the time?”
“Umm…” Harper started, not sure which answer was the appropriate one. Harry had done all the cooking and the cleaning. In fact, he’d kept their house so orderly it could’ve been featured in a magazine. “How about option C: we hire external help?”
Elise gave her that look again.
“I mean… a schedule would probably be more responsible,” Harper offered. There was no way she was going to pass this test. Judging by Elise’s face, she wasn’t even going to get close.
One after the other, the questions kept coming. Each time Harper answered, she found herself wondering if she should be lying just to satisfy Elise. But she also had no idea what wouldsatisfy Elise. By the time they reached the end of the quiz, Harper’s brain felt like a tangled fishing net dragged behind a boat for six months.
“So, how did we do?” Harper asked, a little breathless from nerves. She would be lying if she said her head didn’t hurt. Or that only a tequila shot might make it better.
But Elise didn’t answer right away. In fact, she didn’t answer at all. She just stood up, brushed flecks of sand off her ass, and smiled in a way that unequivocally said we failed this thing. “It’s not important,” she said, already turning toward the parking lot. “It’s just a dumb little quiz. We should probably go.”
Harper’s entire body felt like it sank into the sand. “Okay,” she said, because what else was there to say?
Chapter Eighteen
Elise didn’t believe in horoscopes or manifestations. She’d never bothered with love language quizzes or the Myers-Briggs personality test. She didn’t care that through a series of simple questions you could find out your spirit animal or identify your trauma color palette. And up until yesterday, she’d thought compatibility tests were only good for reality television or couples who needed something to talk about over brunch. Yet here she was, twenty-four fricken hours later, thinking about nothing but that stupid quiz.
Six out of twenty-five. Six!
According to the quiz, a score that low meant she and Harper fell into the category ofRomantically Hazardous: Do Not Operate Heavy Machinery Together. The description went on to say that their passion would likely be brief and chaotic. That bickering and the inexplicable urge to walk away mid-conversation would be most likely. And it even helpfully suggested that couples in this range should probably focus on solo growth journeys.
Elise had gone to bed last night with those words strobing behind her eyelids like a broken neon sign outside a dive bar. She hadn’t been able to sleep at all. Every time she closed her eyes, the phraseRomantically Hazardousflicked across the inside of her skull, followed by a flash of Harper’s face. Which was why she couldn’t look Harper in the eye all morning. Or this afternoon. And now it was evening, and the talent show was kicking off soon, and last she checked, Harper was standing at the refreshment table with a glass of water in her hand.
Elise turned her attention to the stage. The talent show had been her idea to resurrect after they’d axed it for the last three seasons due to a fire-dancing incident with a contestant called Brittany, who had lit up the stage like a Fourth of July sparkler.
Elise hoped it was exactly what they needed to break the curse. Surely it couldn’t be anything else. She was determined that by the finale, Megan would be handing out a final banksia rose. She couldn’t bear to think of anyone calling it theNever Rose Showever again. Not in her professional lifetime, at least. Nope. She’d quit if that were the case.
The stage was a temporary platform built directly over the infinity pool. It was made of a grid of plexiglass panels, each bolted into a slim steel frame so the entire surface seemed to float. Tall, feathery palm trees in large clay pots flanked the setup on both sides. There were rows of outdoor sofas forming a semicircle for the contestants around the pool, each one tossed with sea-glass-colored linen throws. With the sunset coming in fast, the pool lights kicked on underneath, blasting the stage with a soft Caribbean-blue glow from below.
“Is the mic live?” Elise called toward the sound.
“It’s live!” someone shouted back.
She nodded and then focused on the remaining contestants—Amelia, Tori, Elena, Jamie, and Rebecca—who were all perched on the sofas. Each was wearing a costume depicting their talent. Although Elise couldn’t quite make out what that was. Well, except for Elena, who was dressed in a bright red ruffled gown. Elise assumed her talent was flamenco dancing.
Monica stepped onto the stage. She was wearing a plum-purple mini skirt that made her legs look like skyscrapers and a sleeveless white blouse. “Good evening, ladies,” she said, sweeping her gaze over each contestant before adding, “Tonightyou will all showcase your talents and hopefully impress our bachelorette.” She flourished her arm to one side of the stage just as Megan walked onto the platform. Her dress was a shimmering emerald jumpsuit with a neckline that plunged down to her stomach, and her hair fell in the most luscious waves down her back. No one would ever think she spent her days in scrubs or operating on little kids.
“Thank you,” Megan said, her eyes gleaming.
“The winner of the talent show will receive a special one-on-one date with the bachelorette…” Monica paused, letting the silence stretch just as Elise had instructed her to.
The lights dimmed. A drum roll rumbled from the speakers located at the base of two nearby lemon trees. A few contestants looked at each other, while others tried to catch Megan’s eye. But Megan’s face was impassive as ever.